The old man forced himself to offer an ingratiating smile to the minotaur. "Thank you, Mister Cromak. I think, on that note, I'll take my leave... and if I do indeed get a taste for something more suited to your supply, I'll certainly come to call."
Antonin tipped his hat. "Good day." And with that, he turned and strolled away, gesturing for the others to follow.
[Assuming no one else has anything to add? Rock on.]
* * * *
A safe block or so away, Antonin finally rammed his threadbare hat back onto his head and snorted in derision. "Miserable cow," he grumbled.
Such cockiness! At least the minotaurs in the Old Country knew how to keep their cud-loving tongues in check. There had to be something about the grass in Fairhaven that addled their brains and gave them thoughts unbecoming of their station in life.
"Well, now, Antonin is having trouble putting thoughts to words," he ventured as he straightened out the brim of his hat and looked to the others. "He had thought Kluh and Gregir were oafish drunks, skimming cigars from Sherpish's crates when old man was not looking. Hah! It seems Antonin was wrong."
With a wrinkled hand, Antonin reached into one of the pockets of his coat and drew forth a dented, rusty whiskey tin, whose cap he unscrewed and whose neck he set to his parched lips. Having tamed his thirsting gullet, he lowered it and nodded knowingly to his companions. "If there is being stranglehold on imports from Parlque, then it begs the question... where did these men get good supply of the cigars they are giving to sick cutpurse, one who takes Miss Toki's property? Such a delicious question."
He sighed and took another wistful drink from his tin. "Delicious," he murmured, totally lost in his own thoughts.